


Reservations

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, Gratuitous use of movie references, M/M, Oral Sex, Schmoop, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7840162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>s2. Dean has a plan. Sam doesn’t know the plan, because Dean forgets to tell him. But Sam doesn’t mind… or does he know more than he’s letting on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reservations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intotheruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Dale!!
> 
> (If you want to get technical, this takes place sometime after Night Shifter (2x12).)

****“So get this—” Sam begins, but Dean isn’t looking at the screen anymore. He saw what he needed to see.

“We’re not finding ‘em tonight, that’s for sure,” he interrupts.

Sam frowns. “Do you even want to check?”

“Sure. Tomorrow.”

“What’s happening tonight that’s so important?”

“Dinner. We deserve it after that last job.” The job that brought them halfway here in the first place, the job that hung Sam up by the ankle he’s been favoring and nearly put him in the hospital. The bruises around his eyes are fading, but he still handles himself gingerly. Dean thinks he deserves a treat.

Hell, they both do, but he’s not so concerned with himself.

“Dinner…” Sam’s eyes glaze for a second. He glances back down at the computer, staring hard at the screen. His nose scrunches up and Dean, lost in how absurdly cute that is, almost doesn’t notice the little shiver that runs down his brother’s frame.

“Hey.” Dean ducks his head a little, peering at Sam. “You okay?”

Clearing his throat, Sam looks up. “Yeah, man.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m fine, Dean.” He’s got on that wry grin of his that says maybe it’s not all good, but it’s close enough. “Where are we headed?”

When Dean starts, not expecting that, his brother laughs. “Y’know, since you’ve got a plan.”

“Uh…” Dean never lets anything throw him off for long, not even mischievous Sammy dimples. “I got a reservation at—”

“You got a _reservation?”_

“—Paolo’s a few blocks down, for seven o’clock. Mim at the cafe says everything on their menu is divine.”

“Mim,” Sam muses.

“Shut up. She’s awesome. She always cuts my pie slices at 1.5. And I looked up the menu for Paolo’s, they’ve got everything your pretty little vegan heart desires.”

Thankfully, Sam’s expected outrage (”I’m not a goddamn vegan, Dean, I just like eating more than grease sometimes”) distracts from the way Dean’s gut cramps at calling Sam _pretty_ to his face.

Ever since Dad died, Dean has been looking at the time they spend together with more consideration. Who knows which one of them could be next. (And fuck the idea of killing his brother; Dad was off his nut on that one. Sam wouldn’t—doesn’t, as a matter of fact, not if he can help it—hurt a fly.) So Dean began to formulate a nebulous plan that involved Sammy, an evening out, and Not Fucking This Up.

Because Dean is stellar at fucking things up. He’s like the king of… that. He knows he is, too, which is why when Sam stops protesting and sinks into fuming instead, Dean doesn’t keep ribbing him like he might on any other less important night.

“So, it’s… what,” he says, peering down at the little clock in the taskbar. “Five forty-five. That enough time to do your hair?”

Okay, maybe he’ll rib him a little.

Sam scowls. “How about your makeup, princess?”

“Whoa, hey, I’m just trying to be conscientious.”

“Sure. Super helpful, Dean.”

“What? You have that curl thing goin’ on, I thought maybe it took… some… time, hey,” he protests when Sam starts to giggle. “Don’t be a dick. Just go get ready.”

Sam sobers. “Do I need the suit?”

“Probably? It looks like a classy joint.”

While Sam fusses with the motel iron, which looks like it’s from the Cold War era and could knock every tooth from somebody’s mouth, Dean takes a shower. He soaps and shampoos efficiently, ignoring the impulses from little Dean, who has perked up in the heat and wants some attention.

 _Later. Maybe._ Dean doesn’t know how this will go down, but he’s kind of expecting to hit the room again with a happy buzz. He can knock one off into the toilet and pass the fuck out.

 _Or maybe,_ his treacherous brain murmurs, _you’ll get to mess around with Sammy._

 _Only if he wants to,_ Dean tells himself firmly.

_If that’s even something he wants. Look, this is supposed to be about some fuckin’ R &R. Nothing else. If Sam wants something else, he can have it—_

_He can have me,_ his brain whispers.

 _But I am not initiating shit just in case he sees this as nothing more than a fancier dinner than usual._ Dean steps out, toweling off his hair in brusque motions, wrapping the towel around his waist. He opens the door, letting the steam billow out. _The last thing I want to do is—_

His thoughts stutter.

_Is—_

_Fuck._

Sam is standing there, half in and half out of his suit, tie hanging loose, cheeks a little red from what Dean assumes is the sudden humidity. He glances away and Dean ducks out to his duffel, firmly in the realm of _Deny, Deny._

“You should wear the blue stripe,” Sam calls. Dean hears a zipper, then Sam adds (louder, over the splashing), “Red power ties are for politicians.”

“And badass fake F.B.I.,” Dean mumbles.

Louder, he says, “Piss talk, Sammy? What are we, married?”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he regrets it, but Sam just laughs.

 

\- - - - -

 

Paolo’s is a swanky joint. They’ve got cloth napkins, candles in little jars, even a fountain out on their ornate deck. The name on the reservation is McClane.

As soon as the host is out of earshot, Sam snorts. “Don’t you dare call me Holly.”

“’Kay,” Dean says with an impish grin. “Hans.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s an alternate universe. Gruber develops Stockholm syndrome and falls in love with the dashing policeman who holds him captive during his own heist.”

Dean’s heart is pounding.

But Sam just plays along, affecting a husky German burr that makes Dean’s poor blood organ skip a beat. “How coult I resist?” he says. “I’f always vanted an American cowboy.”

“Now you just sound Russian.”

“Bite me, John.”

“Yippee kay yay—”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” their server interrupts.

Dean hasn’t had a chance to look at the menu. Sucking in a breath to try and rein in his pulse, he glances down the list and picks the first thing that looks good: steak. Plus a whiskey on the rocks. Sam orders something greener, because of course he does, and to Dean’s surprise a dry martini.

“How would the sequels work, then?” Sam says when she leaves with their orders. “Hans becomes an American citizen during his stint in prison, gets out early for good behavior, becomes the favored uncle to the kids?”

“You think too much, man.”

Is that a blush? Sam ducks his head, his expression doused in shadow and flickering candlelight. One dimple sparkles like a diamond.

No idea what to say next, Dean lets the silence linger. It’s not as awkward as it could be. He’s been wondering if he’d fail at this whole dating shtick—he’s not usually a _wine ‘em ‘n dine ‘em_ guy, more like _drink til we almost pass out and fuck in a bathroom stall—_ but it seems to be going his way. It’s nice, actually. He’s always wanted to make Sam happy and now he’s succeeding for once.

The server brings them bread and their drinks. Dean lets the alcohol and low babble of other conversations seep into his veins as he looks around again. This place is really nice. Exactly what Sammy deserves. Dean honestly wishes he’d thought of it sooner, but now is better than never.

The rest of the evening passes in snarky banter and some of the best steak Dean’s had in a long-ass while. Sam is radiant, more so with each martini, his complexion ruddy in the low light. By the time they’re picking up the check he’s loosened his tie, laughing unabashed as Dean tries to explain why the Terminator sequels shouldn’t have been made.

Just. Trust him on this.

Before they leave, Sam excuses himself to the restroom. He’s gone long enough for Dean to get his change back and start to wonder if he’s been ditched. Going over the whole evening again, Dean searches for clues. Something he said or did that made his company more repulsive than usual. But Sam comes back soon enough, vibrant as ever. Dean can breathe again.

They stride out into the parking lot in more or less a straight line, side by side, the warm night full of promise and humming insects. The street lamps sparkle in that way they only do when Dean is almost too drunk to drive.

How many drinks did he have, he wonders as he sets key to lock. He counts the ones he remembers. Four. Huh, he hadn’t been paying attention.

A glance at Sammy’s grin over Baby’s roof reminds him of why.

He lets her sidle down the main drag. He knows Sam likes gazing out the window at all the little shops, cafes now closed up for the night, their hanging baskets of ferns and flowers reminding Dean of nineties sitcom sets. There’s a rose garden to their left. The scents waft in as they drive by.

Briefly Dean thinks about buying Sam roses. Or parking and picking some.

 _You’re an idiot,_ he tells himself, slowing to a crawl at a stop sign.

“Hidden garden,” Sam says.

Dean lets Baby stop completely. “Huh?”

“Over there.” He looks. Sam is pointing back toward a dark entrance between two shop fronts, an ivy-laden portico, and a small embellished sign that reads what he said. Dean peers at it. The gears of thought turn sluggishly through the alcohol in his bloodstream.

With a shrug, he directs Baby right instead of straight and parks her.

“Let’s go,” he says.

Sam gapes at him.

“What?”

“I—uh, nothing.” Sam swings out of his side all legs and rustling cotton, leaving Dean’s squint to the audience of the dome light.

The insects are quieter here. Or maybe that’s just the rush of adrenaline drowning out everything but Dean’s breaths and the sound of their footfalls on the sidewalk. They skirt the corner in the shadows, always wary, until the darkness of the entrance swallows them whole.

Wondering why the lamps aren’t lit, Dean lets his eyes adjust. Someone has taken the alleyway between the two buildings and gentrified it with decorative brick, latticework, vines and benches. There are even shops down there a ways, some kind of open patio from which he can hear splashing. He bets there’s a fountain.

Beside him, Sam shoves his hands into his pockets, face turned up to the opening above them. In here they can see the stars.

“It’s like bein’ down in a grave,” Dean muses.

“But no digging.”

“Right. Fuck digging.”

Sam snickers.

The fountain down the way turns out to be one of those wide concrete affairs with a bench seat built into the rim. Dean can see the glint of change layering the bottom, rippling with the water. He wonders if it’d be worth it to fish out some laundry quarters.

It’d mean taking off his suit jacket, which he was already considering, so he does it anyway. Rolls his sleeves up.

Halfway through the second sleeve, he glances over at Sam—

—who is watching him, inscrutable, his face in star-cast shadow.

Caught, Dean glances away again, finishing his sleeve. He approaches the fountain, noting the lack of fancy fish, wondering like every time he sees one if there’s something lurking around the mechanism or under the lip of the rim. Snakes, eels, fuckin’ undines. Who knows.

But nothing darts out to bite him when he plunges his hand in. He comes up with a whoop and a fistful. It gleams silver on the bench.

“All these quarters in one fuckin’ grab, you gotta be kiddin’ me!”

Sam plops down on the other side of the wet little pile, rolling up his sleeves too. His jacket is in a heap with Dean’s.

Together they mine a little section of the change, which Sam fashions to look like a pie slice cut out beneath the water. Dean is setting the coins up in little piles on the bench when he decides they’d look cooler stacked as a castle instead. He pulls piles this way and that.

A distant siren wails.

Heart jolting, Dean jerks in its direction, eying the shadowy entrance to this place like any moment cops will come pouring in by the carload to haul them off.

Sam laughs quietly. “You’re being paranoid,” he says over the murmur of the fountain.

“Caution is a virtue, Sammy.”

“Nobody’s gonna find us here.” Sam glances around. “Hidden garden, for real.”

“Our hidden garden,” Dean corrects before he thinks about what he’s saying.

He sees Sam’s tongue flick out to wet his lips.

“Yeah.”

There’s something thrumming in Dean, running just under his skin, making the darkness more vibrant and causing his breath to catch.

Sam is leaning on one arm, hovering just over their haul of change. His shoulders heave a little. He’s breathing harder than he should be.

Maybe it’s the humidity. Dean can’t recall the last time his clothes stuck to him like this. He doesn’t usually sweat that much when he drinks, but Sam is like a furnace. Dean remembers those times they had to share a bed after puberty lengthened and changed them both. He’d wake up in the middle of the night with octopus limbs twined around him, and a feeling like Hell was a sauna that sprang up in the room while he slept.

Maybe Sam is just feeling like that.

Maybe he wants to leave.

“You alright?” Dean asks. It’s his go-to. Gotta make sure Sammy’s okay, and anyway, sometimes what Dean doesn’t understand comes to light in however his brother answers.

Sam jerks a little, pulling back upright so fast he scatters a pile of change.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat. “Fine.”

Dean squints at him through the dark. He’s got his night vision, but with the moon overhead and those floppy bangs, there’s no clarity to be found. Just the unsettling feeling that Dean has fucked up somehow.

Like all the time.

“Wanna head back?”

 _That_ was the complete wrong thing to say, judging by how ramrod stiff Sam’s shoulders go. Dean thinks he sees his fists clench for the barest moment. Shit.

“Uh—”

“No, it’s fine,” Sam says. He lurches upright, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go.”

“But—”

Sam begins to stride off.

“Hey!” Dean stands. He starts to scoop up the quarters but, as Sam’s form dwindles down the alley, decides they have all the time in the world to get more quarters. Whatever’s happening now is a limited-time offer. Scurrying after his brother, Dean sucks in air against a clench in his gut that tells him if he doesn’t fix this, he might lose whatever almost happened back there.

_What almost happened?_

_Something._ That’s enough to break into a jog and catch Sam at the alley’s mouth.

“Sammy,” he says, low and urgent.

Sam whirls around. Once again, he’s backlit. Dean is beginning to hate that.

“We don’t have to leave.”

“We’re already leaving.”

“What—Sam, it ain’t an ultimatum.”

“Let’s just go.” Sam’s voice is tight, tired, and full of other things Dean can’t parse from a few clipped syllables.

All he can do is say, “Okay.”

 

\- - - - -

 

The atmosphere in the car is tense.

Dean tries turning on the radio, but after a moment or two Sam reaches over and snaps it off.

 

\- - - - -

 

Everything that’s happened that evening turns over in Dean’s head as many times as the wheels turn on the drive back. By the time he parks, he’s so confused he’s starting to get angry. Where the hell did he go wrong? They were having a fine time—

He knows he misread Sam somehow, but that’s pretty par for the course.

Knowing that just makes him madder.

His door slams harder than he means it to and he stands for a moment, nails digging into his palms, staring out across the parking lot to the enormous lake beside the motel. It’s not much to look at in the dark; faint twinkling lights marking the far shore, the boat ramp just past the office in disrepair. Insects hum in a mess of cattails and weeds.

Before he knows he’s moving, Dean is heading for the dock.

“Dean?”

He knows Sam will follow. He keeps walking.

“Hey!”

Footsteps tap in a jog against the asphalt. _How does it feel?_ Dean thinks unfairly, not slowing his stride but not hurrying, either. When Sam falls in beside him, it takes every ounce of strength in his neck to resist his habitual glance.

They make it to the dock in silence.

Footfalls change from hard to hollow. Sam begins to pad along like they’re in an old house trying not to be noticed by spirits, rather than trying to figure each other out.

Dean stops a few feet from the end of the dock. Water laps at the pilasters beneath it. Far off to their left, where it had been obscured by buildings, there shines a green-gold beacon. It reminds Dean of a book he had to read for school. _The American dream, always out of reach,_ they’d said.

He snorts under his breath. He doesn’t know about the American dream per se, but he’s got a lot of experience with not getting things he wants.

Unbidden, he thinks about dying in swimming pools. About that time Sam almost did.

_Goddamn this life._

“What are you doing?” Sam asks. By the timbre of his voice, he’s looking this way.

Dean doesn’t know. It translates into a tight shrug. He feels his face smooth, and wonders if anything he was feeling in regards to that hunt was showing. If it was… Sam probably thinks Dean is pissed at him. Grand.

 _“ I’m not mad at you,”_ he should say.

_“ Maybe we should head north after this.”_

_“ Dad didn’t know everything, you know.”_

“D’you think Nick was gay for Gatsby?” is what comes out instead.

Sam is wrinkling his nose trying not to laugh when Dean turns, but he doesn’t succeed. “Wh-what?”

“Shut up. I’m serious. The dude was—”

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

He’s still chuckling. “Why on earth does it matter?”

“Well,” and this is where Dean begins to fly by the seat of his pants, “if he was, then, y’know—”

“Schools have been straightwashing Fitzgerald for generations? Yeah.” Sam’s eyes twinkle. “That’s a thing.”

“Think of the children!” Dean harangues _sotto voce._

“Dean,” Sam says fondly. “Why the fuck are we out on the dock?”

With a sigh, Dean turns back out to the black expanse of the lake. “Because, man. You keep shuttin’ me out.”

All the goodwill flies from Sam’s tone. “Oh _you’re_ one to—”

“Shut up, bitch, you know what I mean. Ever since—ever since we had that talk—”

“Ever since Dad said you might have to kill me, you mean?”

“Look, I’m not gonna do that,” Dean says firmly, “so you can quit bein’ so pissy about it.”

“Pissy? Dean, our dad told you to—”

“It’s a goddamn contingency plan, Sam!” he snaps. “I’d tell you to gank me if I went dark side and you know it. Don’t put words in my mouth when I’m tryna tell you _I am not going to kill you._ ” Dean’s hands are fists, his shoulders are heaving, his face feels hot and he knows he’s being too loud. “You are all I’ve got. I ain’t throwin’ that away just because you can see some shit, got demon blood in you, what the fuck ever.”

He softens. “I wanna _work_ on this, Sammy. But you gotta meet me halfway.”

The line of Sam’s throat ripples when he swallows. A brief flash of tongue wets his lips. He seems… nervous?

Dean can’t imagine why until his brother is moving closer. Leaning in.

It’s logical to meet him halfway.

The nocturnal buzzing around them echoes through Dean’s veins, his brain suddenly offline at the touch of Sammy’s lips to his. He hauls in a desperate breath through his nose, not wanting to lose that little electric bit of contact. Instinct tells him to cup Sam’s face and press even closer. So he does. Why not? They can say it was the drinks at dinner, the weird desperation sewn through their conversation, that drove him to run his tongue along the seam of his brother’s lips and invite himself in when Sam gasps.

But then Sam’s tongue is meeting his, sliding along, wrapping and twisting, his mouth suckling Dean’s.

A moan escapes one to be drunk by another and Dean isn’t sure who does what.

Sammy is a damn good kisser. Dean reaches, grabs fistfuls of polyester blend to haul him even closer. Their boots scuff the worn wood of the dock. Sam tilts his head, slotting in even better to bite at Dean’s mouth, kissing him fierce, frantic, like he thinks Dean will end this and push him away. Not on his life.

Not when he can taste vodka, olive, and a hint of vinaigrette like a garnish on the feast that is Sam’s mouth. Not when they’re eating at each other’s mouths with more relish than they ate dinner.

And not when Sam pulls away, gasping, grinning, his hand around the back of Dean’s neck. They gravitate back in, foreheads knocking.

They heave in tandem breaths. It reminds Dean of the stillness in the car after many a close call. He and Sammy, side by side, sucking in air tinged with grave dirt and sweat.

“What are we doing?” he asks, not even meaning to.

“I think they call it making out,” Sam says with a peck to Dean’s parted lips. Another follows it, and another, until tongues begin to play again and Dean’s jaw settles into a warm familiar ache. He presses into Sam, getting as close as he can, his brother’s heat seeping through to his bones.

The kiss breaks. Sam looks radiant in the starlight, his lips kiss-bruised and swollen. He’s smiling the kind of smile Dean never thought he’d get to see.

It’s a beautiful moment.

Then Dean feels a twitch down south. And it isn’t him.

Sam glances away, biting his lip.

“Sammy,” Dean teases, “somethin’ you wanna share with the class?”

Hazel eyes roll.

“It’s okay.” Dean nuzzles his hips even closer to emphasize just how okay it is.

Sam blinks, lips parting. Dean does it again and this time Sam moves too. They grind against one another, quick and dirty, Dean chasing his gasp back down to Sam’s lips.

They move together like the subtle waves beneath them, hands skating over each other, gripping and grasping as though at any moment they’ll be torn apart. Twin points of heat clash and pine til they meet again. Dean finds himself grinding harder, grabbing at Sam’s ass to press as close as he can get. Sam arches against him like a dream, mouth red and gasping til Dean hauls him up on to his toes and gets under him a little, friction so good he’s got to bite down hard on Dean’s shoulder.

Pain spikes the pleasure high. The groan that leaves Dean is nothing short of animal.

His teeth find Sam’s neck, salt and the smell of home.

“We’ve got a bed like a hundred feet away,” Sam moans.

Dean grunts into his brother’s skin.

“I don’t—hnngh, Dean, I don’t want splinters.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Dean growls, working his lips over the imprints of his teeth.

Sam whines.

“All right, all right.” Reluctantly, they separate. Sam is trembling finely. Dean doesn’t imagine he looks much less debauched. And the longer he looks at his brother looking like that, the more he wishes he could teleport them to the room.

As one mind they turn on their heels and kick into a run. Sam stumbles, but Dean is there on the side of his injured ankle without even thinking about it. It’s like the most desperate of three-legged races.

The door almost cracks when they slam into it, Dean’s shaking hand trying to fit the key in the lock while Sam slots up behind, his cock a brand on Dean’s coccyx, his hands all up Dean’s chest and down to cup him through his slacks. When one of those hands strokes him, firm and sure, Dean jolts so hard he nearly snaps the key off in the lock.

The instant the door is shut behind them he whirls and pins Sam up against it.

“Tryna kill me,” he mutters, biting at his brother’s lips.

By the next time they part they’re blind with need, shoving away from the door to drag bootlaces undone with shaking fingers. Dean isn’t even done with his before Sam is on him again, scrabbling at his button-down. Halfway through he gives up, grabs handfuls, and yanks. The shirt doesn’t stand a chance.

Fuck the boot, Sam is on top of him. Dean falls back on the bed, double handfuls of his brother’s ass hauling Sam up on his cock so sweet and hard Dean can’t think of anything beyond the heat racing through his limbs. It sears him with chills.

He rolls them over.

Legs spread, seams on his pants straining, Dean traps Sam’s wrists down on the bed and writhes atop him. So little grace in this compared to his usual game. But Sam is nothing usual, not like this. Sam is a fucking fantasy spread out on the ugly nylon comforter with his sinful mouth and eyes dilated black. Sam has lost all grace from his kisses, teeth knocking Dean’s, nipping Dean’s lips.

One arm loops around Dean’s neck and drags him down into the crook of Sam’s shoulder so Sam can whisper in his ear, hot and harsh and humid,

“I need you to fuck me.”

His teeth pull at the lobe. How Dean is expected to form words, he doesn’t know. He settles for a moan instead.

Somehow his boot is wrenched off and clothes fly all over the room and it could be magic, Dean doesn’t care, so long as all of Sam’s bared, feverish skin is as close as they can manage. He doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to put off coming when he’s soaring this close to the sun.

“Let me just,” he mutters. “Let me.” He shimmies down his brother’s body, working Sam’s legs apart, shoving them up so he gets a nice open look at Sam’s monster cock. It’s dripping at the tip, straining up toward Sam’s belly, and when Dean licks a swath right up the shaft hears Sam toss his head back with a sharp, startled cry.

He tastes like salt and sweetness.

“You been eating pineapple?” Dean breathes atop the head.

An explosion of snorted laughs erupts above him, but cuts off just as quickly when he swallows Sam down.

 _Okay, this is more difficult than the girls make it look,_ he thinks, pulling back off to the head, trying to pretend his throat is spasming on purpose.

“You don’t have to—” Sam starts.

_Oh hell, no._

Dean goes back down. He can do this, the reflex just took him by surprise. He wants to see how many noises he can get his brother to make. He focuses on the head til he can relax his throat again, then he works back down, tongue and a hint of teeth that he remembers _he_ likes.

Apparently Sam likes it too.

As he falls into a rhythm, bobbing and sucking, Dean runs his thumb down Sam’s thigh just shy of his balls. He presses down, smoothing, knowing Sam knows where he’s headed, keeping Sam whining and tensing with his mouth on Sam’s cock until the pad of his thumb finds Sam’s hole.

“Dean!”

He presses in, expecting a lot of resistance—based on solo explorations, he figures Sam will be tight—but the ring of muscle gives way into softness and heat.

Dean pulls back, shuffling so he can see both Sam’s ass and the tipped back column of his chin and throat. He presses his thumb in a little further.

The need in Sam’s whine sends shivers up his back.

“Did you—” He doesn’t honestly know how to ask.

“Yeah,” Sam pants. “In the bathroom at Paolo’s.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just—”

Dean’s gotta get his tongue where his thumb is, gripping Sam’s other leg tight when his brother arches with a shriek. “Dean!”

“Mm hm,” Dean hums into Sam’s little furl, flicking his tongue around his thumb, marveling at how little he cares about the taste. It probably wouldn’t bother him anyway, even if he wasn’t impatiently grinding his cock into the bed. His thumb dips in further with the added moisture.

Shit, he forgot about lube.

He pulls back, gently removing his thumb. “We don’t have anything,” he says, sounding more regretful than he thinks he ever has.

“And I’m out,” Sam says, lifting his head so he can see Dean, eyes bright, his bangs beginning to stick to his forehead. “I was going to pick some up tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

“Uh—hey, do you—uh, would you wanna—”

“Spit it out, Sammy.”

“Actually, I prefer to swallow,” his brother says impishly.

Dean chokes.

“Get up here,” Sam urges, and they resituate into a sixty-nine with Dean hovering over Sam’s face, his cock so heavy and full it dangles like a dumbbell between his legs. Sam wastes no time getting it into his mouth, so eager and wet that Dean’s knees go weak, and it’s all he can do not to crush himself down on Sam’s chest as he chases his moan with Sam’s cock.

They suckle fierce and fast at one another, hips working, chasing desire to the finish line.

Dean is losing his mind in this, stuffed full on one end and getting his soul sucked out of his cock at the other. Sam is a pro at this shit. No two ways. He’s swallowing Dean to the root over and over again like he wants nothing more out of life. Dean had no idea—well, of anything, really—but especially that Sam would be able to bring him to orgasm with the same mouth that sassed and stupefied him on a regular basis.

But that’s what’s happening. Dean pumps his hips down once, then again at Sam’s urging, harder, chasing his own come down Sam’s throat before he knows he’s coming.

He’d make more noise than these garbled moans but he’s got his own mouthful to coax.

Speeding up, he tries to go deeper. He manages it. Burying his nose in wiry curls, he makes all the noise he can, working every bit of his mouth and tongue over turgid flesh til Sam locks up beneath him, spits him out, and lets out a ragged yell.

He really does taste sweet. Dean swallows as much as he can, but he’s not as practiced at that as his brother must be ‘cause some of it runs down instead.

 _Gravity’s a bitch,_ is all he can think.

He flops over to the side. He’s careful not to let his leaden limbs smack Sam in the face.

“Oh, man…” Sam sighs. “Yes.”

 

\- - - - -

 

“We left our jackets at the goddamn fountain.”

Dean is on his back, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, utterly content to never move again.

His brother huffs, tired but amused. “Maybe they’ll figure this was why.”

Moments later, the bed shifts. Sam crawls around and down to curl like an apostrophe at Dean’s side. Dean makes sure to get his arm around him good and tight. They’re both sweaty as hell. The room is kind of stifling now. But Dean doesn’t give two shits.

“If I’d known this was gonna happen, I’d’ve left the damn thing here,” he says, glancing over.

Curiously, Sam flushes.

It doesn’t click until it does. Dean stares. Of course—The way he’d frozen earlier, how _on_ he’d been at dinner, how anxious and almost trigger-happy he was at the fountain—How disappointment was almost as paramount in his posture as annoyance when Dean failed to understand.

“You _knew?”_ It sounds equally incredulous and accusatory.

Sam ducks his head.

“I saw it.”

“Saw—Which part?”

His brother’s face gets even redder.

“You saw us _fucking?”_

“Well, I saw—you, naked, looking at me like—well, like dinner,” Sam finishes in a rush. “And then one of the times we were kissing.”

“And—” Dean can’t believe this guy. “You didn’t think I’d wanna _know_ it would all work out fine?”

“I thought—I thought maybe I’d let you make your own choices.” Sam glances away. “Just in case.”

“You fuckin’—C’mere.” He’s got to kiss that look off Sam’s face.

When he pulls back, he strokes callused fingertips along his brother’s familiar jawline.

“Next time you got reservations, you tell me anyway. ‘kay?”

“Dean,” Sam says, looking like he’s about to make a very bad joke. Dean steels himself.

“You made the reservations.”

“Oh my god,” Dean groans. “That’s terrible. You’re terrible.”

Sam’s gaze softens. _You love it._

And Dean gazes back.

_You know I do._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Since this is a gift fic, I invite you all to check out the works of its intended recipient. Dale's writing is awesome.
> 
> If you liked this, please let me know with kudos and/or comments. You know how it is, needing that sweet Validation. ♥ I just,, adore writing my otp. I really do. 
> 
> There's also an aesthetic I included on the tumblr post [here](http://my-wayward-karma.tumblr.com/post/149656528487/reservations-a-wincest-prompt-fill-for).


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